Michael is going to get a tattoo this weekend. He's trying to keep up with me and my love of ink and needles.I've yet to post a picture of my sparrows I got over the Christmas holidays. They are lovely, and keep me up with their colorful wings. As many of you know, I really love bright, colorful, old school tattoos.Michael is a bit simpler than I, and enjoys more abstract art. We both love the idea of barcodes for tattoos, because they symbolize humans commodity identity. So, Michael knew he wanted a barcode on his neck.

He just emailed me: "I'm thinking of changing the meaning of the barcode." (We found a website that translates words into real, working barcodes. Before, he thought he liked the word "expire", because like any shelved good, humans have a limited shelf life. Also, there's a double meaning, as ultimate consumerism equals death of the soul).Anyway, he continued, "Do you like 'obey' or 'deviate'?"

Think about that paradox. As humans living in a society that values labels and things over uniqueness and simplicity, we mostly strive to 'obey'. Even by blogging, we are attempting to emmerse ourselves in a technological society and gain readership from others. We 'obey' by partaking in society. The 'deviants' are diseased, or mentally ill, or criminals. To deviate is the ultimate faux pas of our modern world.

But who wants to be a cookie cutter of anyone or anything else?Forget it. I'm a deviant. I'm a mutant, and want to be that way. I need to stop watching the damn television and start shocking people with new ways of looking at the world. I need to remember what makes me special and different from every other chick out there.

Every Monday, I go to a water aerobics class at the health spa (doesn't that sound swanky compared to 'da gym'?).

I really appreciate this aerobics class for a number of different reasons. I'm allowed to see that cellulite comes in all manner of shapes and sizes. I'm permitted to swim with old fat ladies who wear rubber swimcaps. Sometimes, I pretend I'm Ginger Rogers until I start to heave from exertion. Additionally, the old fat ladies tend to bring their old fat husbands along. Many of the old fat husbands wear bright gold chains over their slooping breasts and guts. At times, I feel like I'm in a Mob movie, except all the gangsters stopped drinking and just started pounding macaroni and cheese. The fitness instructor herself is rotund and allows me to see that some fat people are just fat--not unhealthy. It concerns me that she has myriad questions about Probation; regardless, she doesn't laugh at me when I've straddled a noodle and somehow fallen off of the damn thing.

I forget my point...oh, yeah!

The other benefit to this class is that all these fat old ladies with their fat old husbands are die hard Southern Baptists. During the first class, I was informed about Catholic Preists going straight to hell and burning there. Last time, we discussed the importance of showing women ultrasound pictures of an unborn child before aborting the fetus. I was loving that topic. It made me kick a little too hard and soaked one woman's platinum blonde beehive. Oops!

But my favorite conversation was how the court systems are now protecting the criminals and not the innocent victims."They get televisions in jail!" screamed one lady as she padded her white fleshy thigh through a styrofoam loop."They are allowed to worship other religions instead of just Christianity!" said a floppy redhead with gray roots."They rape, murder, and pillage, and then get attorneys! My son cut his foot on a construction site, and HE can't get an attorney!" gasped the two-peice flowered swimsuit with the second stomach."Well," I said as I peddled forward underwater, forearm fat flapping against the waves, "if it is any consolation, here in fabulous Cobb county the jail is so overcrowded they sleep on the floor. One guy even died of medical neglect--a blood clot shot through his leg and he died in a puddle of blood. Does that make you feel better?"There was brief silence except for the sloshing of water and the sound of distant farting coming from the whirlpool, where the fat husbands and their tacky gold chains were relaxing."God always gets ya," said the blonde.

Yeah. I guess God will always get ya. You bitch.

Anyway, here's an example of a protected criminal. Be warned! Small children should be locked in a closet before you see the picture...

I am a confirmed hypochondriac. I currently suffer from dementia, cancer, footrot, and restless leg syndrome. The doctors won't actually give me these diagnoses, but dammit, I have Internet. WebMD told me so.

One night, I was watching TLC (again). An ad popped up about flesh-eating bacteria. Thanks to my handy laptop, I was able to Google it. Then, I Googled images. I saw some legs with enormous gashes in them and an arm with an ulcer. I was instantly intrigued, and began picking at that spot on my thigh where the skin is red and flaky (it's razorburn, people, I don't REALLY have leprosy). As I scrolled through images of rotting flesh, I came across this little guy...

He's got a KNIFE and a FORK because he EATS FLESH! How adorable!!

I was cooing at the website. Go and coo. I never knew how huggable syphillis really was! No wonder people contract it all the time! Sure, influenza killed off millions of people in the early 1900's, but can we blame it when it's as fuzzy as this?

I've been cured of my hypochodria. If having all these diseases means I'm surrounded by sweet little microbes with eyeballs, I feel just fine.

Did I get flowers? Well....yeah, I got flowers the week before. Nevermind.Did I get chocolates? Nope.Lingerie? Nope, not that.Jewelry? Uh uh. I've already got a rock.

So, what did I get? A marvelous birdfeeder, that's what. There's a story behind this, although small-ish.

My mother and father are lovers of birds. Before I was born, they owned F. Scott and Zelda Finch. Unfortunately, the landlord of their apartment on Case Street, Evanston, turned the heat off at night. Poor F. Scott and Zelda met a cold end. So, my parents had me.

Anyway, as long as I can remember, my family has loved birds and birdfeeders and birdhouses and bird sounds and everything birdy. So, when Michael and I first got this place, I said I wanted a birdfeeder. Things happened and I forgot about getting one.One day, his parents came to visit and we were talking about birdfeeders."Too much mess," said his Mom."Too much trouble," said his Dad."Good target practice," said Michael.I was shocked. It was one of the times when I had to blink fast to keep back tears. Here was a whole family who didn't understand MY family's love of birds. I actually felt kinda invalidated by the whole thing. I think I actually said something like, "Well, WE always had birdfeeders, because birds are wonderful little spirits," or something corny and dumb like that.

I don't drop things. Three months later, we are talking about our ideal house."I want a big YARD where I can hang BIRDFEEDERS everywhere," I say."You won't drop it, will you?""Nope--WE hang birdfeeders in MY family."(You know, I'm realizing I have the negotiating skills of a seven year old).***Michael bought this birdfeeder for me. Guess what? Birds ARE messy...there's seeds all over the place. But we've seen two finches, many sparrows, a big dove, three cardinals, and one malignant looking woodpecker. And my, it is glorious to see these creatures gracing my porch. This has to be one of the most romantic and thoughtful gifts I've ever received.Additionally, it has Delilah Amelia climbing the walls.

Working out is so much more fun with one of these.I have been going to the gym daily. I can listen to all my wierd industrial music at full blast.While that old gassy lady next to me scowls at the ferocious beats emanating frommy iPod Nano.

Eat my shorts, girl who runs for two hours a day. Suck it up, bodybuilder dude.And Old Gassy Lady? No more spandex allowed.When I listen to my Nano, all of you DISAPPEAR! Ha!

What worlds does she know--trapped within her mind?Her eyes are milky white, retinas detached.Her hands are contorted like a marionette's.Her mouth puckers and her brows are heavy.Mother tells me she's a miracle child-she was to have died at age twoand now she is 19.Mother tells me she lost her twin long, long ago.

This child's self is engulfed in silence.She is quiet in her sixty pound skin.Her legs have atrophied.Her brain has atrophied.Her eyes are milky white.

As she sits silently on the sofa,and her mother praises her survival,I cannot help but wonderhow any heavenly being would allowthis fragility to continue.Her face is twisted in sadness.

There is no one who will ever hear hersingle-most simple thought,for her tongue cannot contract in those usual ways.Her vocal chords were severed years ago.And while I cannot be proud for my thoughts,and while I am ashamed for this motherwho did everything she couldto save a life that should never have been,I see this child.

There is a universe in her mindwhere no one is allowedwhere no one shall venture.

We travel to distant space in rockets.We create lives and destroy them in tubes.We shirk our morality in orderto sustain that which should never be.And somehow,we cannot look into the mind of one smallundernourishedblindatrophiednineteen year old girl.

The womb is a terrible place when it fails to feed.What right do we haveto contradict the womb's knowledge of life and death?

God strike me dead:she should have been permitted to diejust as her twin didjust as her older brother thrived.She should have been permitted to die.

(Diary of a Mad Woman):1/22/06: "I just think the simpler it is, the better. We'll keep the ceremony small and the guest list short. No attendants. I mean, it's only fifteen minutes long! The rest of the time will be spent getting pictures done. Now, I must go grocery shopping."

1/30/06: "(sigh). Perhaps I should start thinking about invitations? Hmmm. Seems silly. Only fourteen people coming--can't I just call them for the invitation? What should I wear? It would be silly to buy some fancy dress I'll only wear once, and it will cut into my budget. I know! A sari! I'll wear a sari. Good, that's done. Decision made. Barefoot and a sari."

2/05/06: "Yup, I AM going to wear a sari"

2/10/06: "Was kidnapped by my friend Drunk Dialer. She started to get teary about my wedding. She got tearier than I was. Then, I started to get teary. Then, she forced me into the car at lighter-point and dragged me to a bridal store. She FORCED me to start trying on dresses. A couple of things happened:1. I didn't freak out like I did the last time I went to a bridal store alone.2. The dresses actually fit.3. I looked beautiful.4. I felt beautiful.5. I don't wear socks with my sneakers so the whole dressing room stank like bad feet.6. Drunk Dialer saw me in my underwear and also helped adjust my breasts in the wierd bras made for gowns.7. Any other time, this would have disturbed me, but that day, it was a relief to have a friend help me.8. OMIGOD I'M GETTING MARRIED!

So, now: must go to several wedding boutiques for gowns. Look at invites. Think about bouquet and additional flowers. Who's going to do hair and makeup? Veil or flower wreath? Silk wrap with dress? Perhaps a little jacket? Hmmm. Need to lose more weight. No shoes for wedding...WILL BE MARRIED BAREFOOT! Do I like tulle? How about taffeta? Beads or no beads? Michael will have to get a tux. Will he get a white tux? A European tux? Oh, hell..."

Wedding shower to be arranged in Kentucky by my future in-laws. Awesome!

Post wedding celebration to be arranged by parents in October. Awesome!

Wait. Do I have enough clothes for the honeymoon? Where are we going? Oh, yeah, St. Lucia. What resort? How much? DAD, WE NEED MORE MONEY! Okay, stop freaking. STOP FREAKING. It's fine. I've got seven months. Seven....SEVEN?? ONLY SEVEN MONTHS??? NEVERMIND! Start freaking! Get it together! Mom...wanna go look at gowns with me? Oh, shew, she said 'yes'. Good. Man, am I glad Drunk Dialer talked me out of a sari. I looked thin and perfect in a ballgown. I can't wait to be Michael's wife."

2/13/06: "Joined a healthclub. Will lose seventy pounds in seven months. No. How about forty? Can I do forty? Oooo, they have massage therapy! And a sauna! If I sit in a sauna for forty minutes, won't I sweat out a pound? What's the trick with the club membership? You pay and then you lose? No? I have to work out, too? Okay....serenity now. Serenity now. Think about the dress. Think about the sunset. Think about the LIVE VIOLINIST who will be there, playing for the most important ceremony in your life. Think about your soon to be husband, and the look on his face when he sees me---his beautiful bride. My God, My God, thank You for these days and moments. Let me be perfect for Michael."

As I go through this process of wedding planning and sheet purchasing, one thing has become quite clear to me--crystal clear.

I am becoming my mother. In many, many senses.

Recently, I've been cleaning frantically. I go through these spots where I'm constantly wiping and getting thrilled by purchasing antibacterial Clorox clothes. I sit for DAYS wondering what vase should sit on top of that dresser, and have purchased two pewter vases on ebay, only to reject their candidacy for that dresser. I vacuum weekly and flinch when the cat shakes one kitty-litter dusted paw anywhere near the carpet. Then, I awake and realize how much this reminds me of the constant cleaning of my mother (Momma, I love you. You clean obsessively). So, I slack for a few weeks and find myself feeling guilty for NOT wiping incessesantly.

I won't buy anything with a money order. It's not that money orders are beneath me...they're just...beneath me. I won't shop at any 'bargain' centered store. TJ Maxx? Out. Marshall's? Forget it. Big Lots? Over my dead and bloated body. I won't shop from bins, crates, or a store filled with merchandise stickered with orange pricetags. I don't even enjoy looking at clearance racks at mainstream stores. If I have to repair a new item, I'm finished. I'm a snot--it's true.

Now, don't get me wrong. I like to save money and as one friend says, "Stick it to the man!" I realize that NOT purchasing full-priced, namebrand items is a way of shunting capitalism and all the evil it stands for. However, I don't think ANYONE should have to shop in tight corners and messy racks of clothes and non-breathable material and poorly constructed clothing. I don't think ANYONE wants to feel like a scavenger hunting for a left over bone that some rich broad decided wasn't good enough to showcase in some snazzy fashion store. Really, I realize what a bitch I sound like. And I also know that some people THRIVE on finding that ridiculous sale price and feeling like a huntress on the prowl. Good for you!

Just don't give ME grief about it. I say that with a smile, because Michael and Spinster have resorted to call me 'Anne'--my mom's name. And you know, there IS a bit of a snob living in my Mom. But there's some other important things I learned from Anne.

I learned that living in beautiful, clean spaces is gratifying and fulfilling.I learned how decorating and arranging is cathartic, and an expression of artistic creativity.I learned that saving some money and truly enjoying the purchase of one or two beautiful items is much more gratifying than buying sacks of sale items.I learned that going to nice stores with quality items is a good way to center myself towards goals I want to achieve. Sure, there are lots of things I can't afford NOW, but maybe in two years, I can afford a two thousand dollar suit. I'll wear it with pride.And most of all, I learned that everyone deserves a little bit of luxury.

So, Mom, the next time I realize I'm turning into you, I'll smile, and be grateful that we're carrying a legacy. It's a legacy of gracious living, a little bit of snobbery, and a taste for the finer things.

Michael: Do you see what you're getting into now?Spinster: Shut it. I can HEAR you mocking me.

Eighth grade. Kross-Kolor jeans--bright green. The bell rang and we're headed for the bus. Kids swarming the doors. I'm shrinking down in order to avoid being elbowed or recognized by bullies (for some reason, I don't think the fluorescent putrid green pants won't betray my location). Just a few more feet and I can head to the safety of the schoolbus, where I sit behind the driver in order to duck swats and pecks from the bullies on the bus.

I see the bus. I'm almost there. Suddenly, there is a hand on my ass. It pinches--hard.I spin around to see about five guys staring at me and laughing, and the butt-grabber is blushing."WoooHoooo!" he screams. They run off.

This is probably the single most memorable passage into womanhood for me.Some wierdo grabbed my butt.

America is too stuffy about sexuality. We're all hung up on 'morality' and 'decency' and 'heterosexuality' that we forget the Kinsey scale...very rarely is someone completely heterosexuality or homosexual. We're all a bit of both; most of us tend to stay to one or the other side of the scale, but there are times when we bend over the curve to the other side.I preface this particular post with this explanation because of the following women, I do NOT have a sexual crush on any of them. I am simply enamoured of them. I shall call them my 'women crushes'...women with which I could lunch, or shop, or gossip.In no particular order, I present my women crushes:1. Stacy London. She's funny. She's nasal. She's like Fran Drescher with an awesome wardrobe. She makes no excuses for her love of high heels, and probably ignores mothers and doctors who tell her she will pay with a bad back and ugly feet in years to come. She is a fag hag, and a good one, too. She owns two cats. She has a double major in German and philosophy. This is not a woman to mess with; if a woman can actually afford Christian Louboutin shoes on her own salary, then she is empowered, cool, and ultimately brilliant. Stacy--let's do lunch.

2. Hillary Clinton. I don't want to like her because she's too much of a 'star' amongst the Democrats, and has some off-the-wall kooky ideas. However, I have to admire this woman for always remaining a lady, for rolling her eyes at President Bush, for publically speaking out against the detrimental state of the Nation. I have to admire her for being vocal, adamant, and far more intellectual than her husband (probably). Of course, I also have to admire her for her strength during the Lewinskygate, and I have to admire her overt Mother Bear characteristics. Hillary Clinton may not be the answer to all of America's problems, but I think she's a good start and a strong lady. Hey, Hillary...how about high tea at the Ritz?

3. Queen Rania of Jordan. Yes, she's gorgeous. Yes, she's thin. Yes, she's upper class. She is also kind. She is a representative for women of her country that are oppressed. She is wise and giving. She knows that her duty as queen is not a luxury ride to the top (like President Bush). She knows that carrying an authorative title is a duty and responsibility to her people. She knows that if she does not look out for her people, then she is betraying her crown. Queen Rania-meet me at the department store for a free makeover!

I'm sure I'll think of some more, but I've just gotten an alert from E-bay about a Kate Spade purse I'm trying to purchase...

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What I Live By:
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, alwaysâ A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
-T.S. Eliot
"Little Gidding"